London

It was a quiet drive for Blade and Whistler back to the place that they called home.  From the outside, it certainly did not appear to be much of a home.  Situated in an industrial sector outside of London, it was not a residence of any sort.  It was an abandoned manufacturing facility that had assumed a new function on the ongoing battle against vampires.

 

The modified black van drive up to the chain link gate at the center of the fence that surrounded the aluminum-sided steel constriction.  Whistler scanned the area as he reached for the remote opening built into the dashboard.  He noted that all of the outdoor high-powered lamp posts were burning brightly with their slight purple glow.  All of the security cameras that he could spot were still in place.  Even though if something had been amiss, the security systems would have notified him in the van via wireless, he always wanted to be certain.  Content, he entered the passcode, his late wife’s birthday.

 

The gate’s motors began to spin and allowed entrance.  As soon as the van passed through, the gate closed quickly.  Whistler drove around to the back of the building and entered another passcode, and the garage door rolled back.  He pulled into the building and shut off the engine.

 

“How, sweet home,” Whistler sighed.  As much as he loved the open places of his Middle America youth, he never felt quite as at home as when he was surrounded by manufacturing equipment.  This place, a former Airbus manufacturing plant, certainly had an abundance of equipment.  Drills, presses, lathes of all sizes were here.  It hadn’t been long after the Black Mass Barrier went up that that the former operators of the plant realized that there wasn’t going to be a market for transatlantic jets for a while.

 

Blade opened the rear doors and got out of the van.  He took out the silver-impregnated katana from the sheathe built into his trenchcoat.  Carefully laying the flat of the blade onto his gloved left hand, he peered closely at the weapon.  There were a number of nicks along the cutting edge, a testament to that night’s success.  Nearly two dozen vampires had been eliminated.

 

He looked up.  “Hey, old man.  Looks like this could use some sharpening.”

 

Whistler had already limped over to a worktable with some his equipment.  He had pulled back his long white hair as he peered closely at his weapons.  There was a lot of vampire blood that would need to be cleaned.  “Yep, and I seem to remember teaching you how to sharpen a blade, as well as teaching you everything you know about hunting vampires.”

 

Blade walked over and put the sword on the table.  “You taught me everything that you know about hunting vampires.  I’ve picked up a few things without you.”  His grinned devilishly.

 

“And what would that be?” Whistler replied in turn.  “How to shoot darts from a wheelchair?”

 

“Hey.”  Blade’s face turned more serious.  “Go easy on Harker.  I may not have always agreed with him, but he fought Dracula to a standstill for fifty years from a wheelchair.”

 

Whistler put down a silver-laced dagger.  The edge was still fine but there was a dried blood coating it.  “I don’t call it a standstill when your family gets killed by bloodsuckers.”  Whistler knew the pain that Quincy Harker had felt – he too had lost a wife and children to vampires.

 

“Every vamp we kill means somebody else who doesn’t have to go through that.  Quincy said something like that once, but he said it a whole lot more eloquently.”

 

“Well, they don’t call you Blade, the Literary Master.”  Whistler slapped Blade on the back.  “Come on, let’s get some shut-eye.  Clean up can wait until the afternoon.  The sun’ll be up soon.”

 

The shiny black Bentley had finally reached its destination.  It had been a long nostalgic drive from the estate in West Sussex for Alistair Woodley.  It had been some time since he had last made this particular trip.  Lord Godalming, “God rest his soul,” Alistair thought, had not gone into London much in his declining years.  Certainly, when there was an important matter in the House of Lords, Lord Godalming would focus his will and get his illness-wracked body to Parliament.  However, in his last months, even Godalming’s determination wasn’t enough to get him out of his sickbed.

 

Alistair recalled how he made this trip more frequently in years past when Miss Lucy … he quickly corrected his thought to ‘Lady Godalming’ … was studying at University.  She would come back nearly every weekend to the estate.  Alistair would pick her up after classes on Friday and bring her back late on Sunday.  Those were happy days.

 

Now Lady Godalming sat in the back of the Bentley crowded in by belongings that would not fit in the ample boot of the motorcar.  There was twinge of sadness in Alistair’s eyes at the thought of Lady Godalming taking her permanent residence in the family flat in the London.  The staff back at the estate shared in Alistair’s dismay, but she had put to rest any fears they had about the ownership of the estate changing hands.

 

“This place is Godalming.  It will always be Godalming,” she had said as she departed.  Everyone knew that Lucy Holmwood, Lady Godalming, was always true to her word.  She was not like some of the new nobility, trading in tradition for fleeting thrills.

 

After the motorcar pulled up to the entrance to the flat, Lucy waited for Alistair to come around to open

the door for her.  She always extended him that professional courtesy.  However, as she stepped out she took along a large load of packages.  She would not allow the dutiful septuagenarian, despite all of his protests of how strong his back still was, to carry all of the things inside.

 

“Thank you, Alistair.”  The heels of her black boots clicked on the sidewalk beneath her.  She had the three stacked cardboard boxes pressed against her long black trenchcoat that covered her black shirt and khaki pants.  It wasn’t exactly a proper look for a Lady, in Alistair’s opinion.

 

It was only a few steps up to the landing.  Lucy fumbled to get her key out while not dropping the packages.  Balancing the packages in one hand, she opened the door and notched the stop for Alistair.  Once inside she headed straight for the lift that would take to her second story rooms.

 

After about thirty minutes of effort, all of the packages were safely transported.  Alistair was sitting on the sofa, his driving cap on his lap.  With one hand he was wiping sweat form his brow while he held a glass of water in the other.  It was all that Lucy could offer right now.  Having been away for so long, there was nothing else available.  Once the unpacking was completed, her first stop would be at the market for some groceries.

 

“I can manage from this point on,” Lucy noted.  “After you’re done with your drink of water, of course.”

 

Alistair felt a little strange sitting in the Lady’s presence.  He started smoothing out his pants.  “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all to stay a bit, my Lady.:

 

“Thank you for your generous offer, but I’ve already overburdened you with this move.  Besides, I’d prefer if you made it back to the estate before nightfall.  It’s not as safe as it used to be after dark.”

 

“It’s not as safe as it used to be even when the sun is shining.  I could see some bloody trolls underneath some of the bridges we drove over,” Alistair replied.

 

“It’s a strange world, at least self-contained section of it, that we live in,” Lucy responded.  For as bad as things sometimes were inside of the Barrier, from the reports it was even worse outside.

“Well, then,” Alistair stood up as he drank the last of his water.  “If you won’t be needing me for anything else, I’ll be going.”  He carried the glass back into the kitchen and placed it in the sink.  “Good night, Lady Godalming.”

 

Lucy took his hands an gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  It brought back memories of her childhood when she would give him innocent kisses for sneaking her some sweets between meals.  “Thank you for al of your help.  I will let you know when I would like to return to he estate.  It won’t be long.”

 

“Very good, my Lady.”  Alistair opened the door and headed out.  With Alistair gone, Lucy could finally take stock of this familiar place.  Now despite all of the boxes stacked everywhere, she could imagine what it would be like when it was organized again.  She hadn’t taken a good look at the place when she first came in, so intent was she on getting everything moved in.  Everything she had left here was still in clean and perfect order.  The service had done an admirable job, as unusual, during the long unoccupied period.  She could even see the top of some fresh flowers peeking out over the boxes on the coffee table.

 

Unpacking would take some time.  The started to reacquaint herself with her old domicile.  It was a well-furnished place in terms of some genuine Victorian-era furniture.  The family crest adorned the mantle above the fireplace.  The flat consisted of a great room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a study.  Her wandering took her eventually to the study.  Behind the exquisitely crafted mahogany desk stood and entire wall of shelves.  The shelves held volumes that had been in the family for decades as well as some more recent additions.  Lucy wet to the section hat held some textbooks from her graduate school days.

 

The pulled down her favorite volumes from her time at Oxford.  “Parapsychology and the Modern Era.”  Her finger traced along the name of the author – Rachel Van Helsing, Ph.D.  Opening the cover she looked at the inscription –

Dear Lucy, You have without a doubt been my prize pupil.  It has been an honour and a privilege to see your knowledge blossom.  Though family history has given you a more open mind than your classmates, your ability to comprehend, to synthesize, and to develop new insights has given even me new hope.  I pray that you are not visited by the troubles, but if you ever are, I am convinced you will be more than up to the task.   With deepest regards, Rachel

 

That was the past, and now the future beckoned to her.  She was the inheritor of the birthright now.  The “troubles” as Rachel had innocuously called them, had not to come to her, but she would come to them.  Mentally, she was ready to enter the fray, but she lacked the guidance and wherewithal to engage the creatures of the night.  Rachel was dead, Quincy Harker was dead, Frank Drake was somewhere on the other side of the Barrier.  Even Charles Seward had been murdered, and that family had not done anything against the revenant menace since their ancestor Jack’s days.  There was only one hunter of vampire that she knew of, but she had no idea of how to reach him.  However, she knew of someone who might.

 

She opened the centre drawer of the desk and took out her father’s leather address book.  She thumbed through the entries, marveling at her father’s exquisite penmanship until she reached the later entries for the letter ‘C’.  She found the information for “Crichton, Jacqueline” and then rang the number.

 

At the Crichton Estate, the ringing phone startled the youngest member of the household into frantic tears.  Little Kenneth Crichton had been struggling to crawl under the supervision of his nanny when the call came through.  The teenaged Gloria looked around, but there were no servants to be seen. She knew that Lady Jacqueline was outside in the back and would never hear the phone, so she decided to answer it herself.  The quicker she did, the quicker that she would be able to quiet down the little baby.  It wasn’t time for the baby’s feeding, and Gloria was still woozy from providing breakfast.  The vampiric infant’s appetite was growing, and she wondered how much longer her blood would be enough to keep him sated.

 

“Crichton Estate, may I help you?” Gloria said loudly over the baby’s cries.

 

“This is Lady Godalming, I would like to speak with Lady Crichton, if I may, please.”

 

‘Lady Godalming?’  Some other high class noblewoman from the tone and pronunciation.  Gloria wondered if she had met this Godalming before.  Enough of their type came to the house, but it was much harder to remember titles than it was to remember real names.  “Um, I’ll see if the Lady is available.  One moment, please.”

She put the phone down and lifted the baby into her arms.  A few pecks on the cheek served to quiet him down as she went to the window.  Lifting it up, she called out, “Lady Jacqueline, there’s a telephone call for you.  It’s a Lady Godalming.”

Jacqueline looked up from her copy of the Daily Mail.  While she adored her grandson, it had been a long time since she had raised a child.  For a woman blessed with rejuvenated youth and the superhuman speed of Spitfire, a vampiric child could prove exhausting.  Coming out into the last remaining daylight was an escape.  Whether it was the magic of vampiric conception or more likely the power passed down from his mother having drunk from the Holy Grail, baby Kenneth was immune to the deadly effects of sunlight.  However, he did not seem to much care for it at times.

“Lady Godalming?” Jacqueline crinkled her nose at the thought.  Lady Godalming had died years ago, and she had not heard of Arthur Holmwood III remarrying.  She wondered what this was about.  “Very well.  I’m coming.”

After Jacqueline had reached the window, Gloria handed the portable telephone to her.  The modern technology looked somewhat out of place amidst the Victorian architecture and furnishings.  “Thank you, Gloria.”

 

Jacqueline lifted the handset.  “This is Lady Crichton.”

 

“Lady Crichton, this is Lucy Holmwood.  I hope you won’t find it presumptuous of me to ring you up.”

 

“Lucy?”  Jacqueline remembered the bright buy quiet daughter whom Arthur Holmwood had brought along to some parties.  Once she thought that Kenneth had fancied her.  Then the realization hit her.  If this was Lucy and she was Lady Godalming, then Arthur was deceased.

 

“Yes, Lady Crichton.  I am now Lady Godalming,” Lucy replied.

 

“Oh, my dear child,” Jacqueline sighed.  “I hadn’t heard.  My deepest sympathies.”  She couldn’t believe that she had not heard about Arthur’s passing.  However, life as a Pendragon made it hard to keep up with high society life than it had been in her younger but older days.

 

“Thank you.”  Lucy’s voice displayed no sign of emotion. “That’s very kind of you.”

 

Jacqueline felt awkward and wasn’t sure of what to say next.  An uneasy silence ensued.

 

“Lady Crichton?”

 

“Call me Jacqueline, please.  We’re peers now.”

 

“Very well … Jacqueline,” Lucy said.  “I was hoping that you might provide me with some assistance.”

 

“Of course.  In what way?”  Jacqueline felt guilty about Arthur.  She would like to provide some kind of memorial, belated though it may be.  Hopefully, aiding Lucy would help her in honoring his memory.

 

Lucy paused and chose her words carefully.  “As I’m sure you know, our families have had certain … blood-related problems in the past.  Now that I have inherited the title, I mean to do something about it.”   Apparently, Lucy was privy to the secrets that the Godalmings and Falsworths shared.   “However, while I have the educational training, I don’t have the real world experience.  I was hoping that you might be able to put me in touch with someone who might be able to provide that.  In particular, I am looking to find Mister Blade.”

 

Blade.  The name drew a gasp from Jacqueline.  She knew him all too well.  He was the one who led them into battle against the Baroness.  He was the one who destroyed her son Kenneth.  He certainly was no family friend.  “Mister … Blade.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a number for him.  However, if you call Scotland Yard, they would be able to help you.  Ask for Inspector Chelm.  As I understand, he has had a number of dealings in the blood-area with Mister Blade.”

 

“My sincerest thanks, Lady Crichton.  I shall do so now.”  Lucy said gratefully.

“Not at all.  Not at all,” Jacqueline replied.  She wondered what Lucy was planning, but an unsecured line was not the place to talk about hunting vampires.  Was Lucy’s intention to join Blade in the fight personally?  Did she really know what she was getting into?  Jacqueline wondered if she would have tried to dissuade Lucy.  The battle against evil, whether it be against vampires, extradimensional demons, or costumed megalomaniacs, tended to exact a heavy tool on the champions.  She knew all too well about loss.  She decided to ring Lucy in a few weeks’ time.  After that, she might need to bring up the topic with her fellow Pendragons.

Wallachia

Inside of the cold stone walls of Castle Dracula, a roaring fireplace provided ample heat for the state dining room.  The two diners, seated at opposite ends of the lengthy, ornately draped table, did not require the fire’s warmth.  Only the most bitter of cold could cause a vampire discomfort.  However, traditional held that the fire should be lighted and these two vampires were particular about tradition, at least when it suited them.  Now they were speaking of forging new traditions – ones that even the waking world would be forced to recognize.

Dracula sat leisurely in his hand carved wooden chair.  His signature cape was draped behind him.  With a Bohemian style white shirt and black breeches, he sported a very different look than the one in which he had more recently terrorized the modern world.  He lifted his crystal goblet in his hand an saluted his guest.  “To your domain of Anglia, my dear Lord Ruthven.”

At the opposite end of the table, the English vampire, decked out in his own antiquated attire returned the salute by lifting his cup in turn.  “And to your domain of Wallachia, greatest of the shadow states.”

Dracula acknowledged the salute and took a sip of the rich red liquid within.  It was a new blend that his minions in the cellars had concocted – virgin maiden with a touch of pixie and only the slightest bit of elf.  The changes that came with the Barrier brought some new tastes for the vampire palate.

“The drink is excellent, my Voivode,” Ruthven declared.  “Would that such a taste could be sampled fresh and heart-driven.”

“That would be most appetizing,” Dracula agreed wholeheartedly.  “For one such as I, who always prefers to drink from the source, the new flavors that the world presents now make more final dining almost desirable.  As to this particular blend being found naturally, give the mortals a few generations and they’ll crossbreed with these other races soon enough.”  He laughed the devilish laugh that made the human servants mulling about smile with uneasy fear.  The guards, in black outfits emblazoned with a green dragon symbol, stood impassively at their posts, Ruthven noted.

“My Voivode Dracula, your guards seem exceptionally strong and determined.  May I ask about the symbol that they wear?”  Ruthven’s words were smooth and eloquently pronounced.

“The dragon is the symbol of their station.  They are my new Order of the Dragon,” Dracula explained with outward pride.  “In the days before I was turned, I, lie my father, was a member of the original Order commissioned by the Church to battle the Turk.  Now my Order fights for me.  They are the finest vampires in my flock, Wallachians all.  Though in the days to come, I may allow other nationalities entrance, as I expand the borders of my domain.”

“In that regard, how do matters stand here on the Continent, if I may be so bold,” Ruthven asked delicately.,  “I receive so little word in Anglia.”

“Wallachia is secure and unquestionable mine.  All vampires therein obey my will.  My legions grow as I see fit.  No one is turned without my express permission.  We will keep our numbers pure.  I will not allow undesirables into the community of undeath,” Dracula explained passionately.

He pointed to a map on the wall.  The base drawing was that of Europe with the traditional boundaries displayed.  Overlaid upon it was a plastic board with other marked areas with drastically different borders.  In the heart of traditional Romania was Wallachia.  To the immediate west was Magyara.  Beyond that to the north in the Germanic countries were areas such as Teutonia, Silesia, Alemannia, and Neupreussen.  Farther to the west were Normanland and Iberia.

“Wallachia stands secure.  The Germanic lords – von Klatka, Orlok, Frost, et al – spend so much time battling amongst themselves for their little fiefdoms that I have nothing to fear from them.  The day is coming soon when I will strike out to the west and take Magyara from that fool Czucron.

“What of the south?  It is rumoured that Varnae has established himself in Achaea?”  Ruthven noted the area that covered traditional Greece.  “Surely the First Vampire poses a threat to your plans to regain the title of Lord of Vampires?”

Dracula put down his cup, though his hand continued to hold the stem tightly.  “Varnae,” he hissed.  “The ancient fool is simply a survivor.  I am a conqueror.  He will be destroyed in all good time.”  Though Dracula knew that the time for confrontation was not now, not as long as the ancient Atlantean held Dracula’s son Janus as a hostage. 

{Varnae has had Janus as a hostage since the end of Marvel’s Nightstalkers series}

It had been a few years now, and Dracula cursed himself for not liberating his son yet.  He recalled with disgust his own days as a hostage, a prisoner of the Turkish Sultan Mehemet.  Had he been weaker of will he would have winced at the memories of the indignities that he suffered over five centuries ago, But Dracula was above that.  What he could not rise above was the concern for his son, even though the child had been forged by the Power Above into a weapon against him.  It was only a matter of time now until Dracula’s minions infiltrated the domain of Achaea and learned the exact whereabouts of Janus.  Then Varnae would see how a true Lord of Vampires ruled.  However, Ruthven knew none of this, and he would never know unless it suited Dracula’s purposes.

“Let us turn to your domain of Anglia,” Dracula continued, deftly changing the subject.  “How stand things in your land?”

Ruthven nervously tugged at his silk collar.  The reason for which he surmised he had been called here had arrived.  “As well as can be expected.  As the place in which the Barrier originated, the influx of magic sees to be more prevalent than on the Continent.  It has made consolidating power in my shadow state more difficult.  Struggling against the humans can be hard enough, but when elves, trolls, and the like are added to the mix, you can appreciate the complexity.”  He hoped his words sounded more confident than he felt.

Dracula smiled and pondered Ruthven’s words for a few moments.  Then he took a lengthy draught from his cup.  He wiped the blood from his lips and smiled again.  ”An interesting assessment, my Lord Ruthven, but one that seems somewhat at odds with what my own operatives report.”

“Er, how so, my Voivode?”  Ruthven fumbled to get another sip of blood.

“I have heard that the Baroness, that self-proclaimed heir of my get Baron Blood, was making a play to organize the undead with other creatures on either side of the Channel.  Fortunately, she was apparently stopped, but not by your forces but rather by the costumed heroes as well as the scourge of our kind,” Dracula explained.

{Blade and the Pendragons dealt with the Baroness in Pendragons #21}

“Yes,” Ruthven agreed.  “Blade did play a part in her demise.”  Because of the Vampire Slayer’s activities, Ruthven had issued orders among his minions for Blade to be hunted down.  He expected those commands to come to fruition any day now.  “He is being dealt with.”

Dracula laughed mockingly.  “I am sure he is, but even I must admit that he is a resourceful foe and rather difficult to kill.”  He stared deep into Ruthven.  “The issue, however, is that Blade dispatched a rival to your rule.  You did nothing to stop her from making enviable progress.”

“I apologize,” Ruthven lowered his head.  “I will strive harder to measure up to the trust you bestowed upon me by granting me Anglia.”

Dracula nodded at the obeisance.  “It is good when one’s vassals shows his place. The British Isles hold a place dear to my undead heart.  I had made my strongest play for dominance there years ago, and I left without success.  I had helped a local might fare better, but I fear that even the Emerald Isle resists you.”

Ruthven’s canines bit into his mouth as he tried to control himself.  The Voivode was giving him a browbeating, something he did not care for at all.  “It’s true that Siobhan has styled herself the Lady of the Emerald Isle, but it is only a matter of time before my forces reassert control of the barbarians there.”

Dracula enjoyed getting a rise out of Ruthven.  “I see the ancient enmities are still there – English against Irish.  But then we have a plenty of those here – Magyars and Turks to name but two.”

Without taking his eyes off of Ruthven, Dracula beckoned a servant with his hand for more drink.  “Now I have even heard told of an attempt by our kind on the life of the Prime Minister.  Is this so?  It’s bad enough when so many of our kind want to live openly already in this new age, but to act so blatantly is reprehensible.  The time of the shadow states to take the place of the traditional nations is not yet come.”

{See Department F.66 #5 for the vampiric assassination attempt}

“They were outlaws, Voivode,” Ruthven attempted to explain.  “From your time in Britain, you know that there are many among the undead who refuse to show allegiance to their lords.”

“True,” Dracula sighed.  “But I expected you to do better.  My confidence and my trust are limited.  There are many among the hierarchy of the undead who would welcome the opportunity to rule Anglia.”

“As I have said,” Ruthven struggled to say.  “I will redouble my efforts my efforts to …”  His words were halted by his ringing cell phone.  Ruthven took the device from his vest pocket.  “I apologize, Lord Dracula, but may I take this call?  My minions have been instructed to call on matters of the gravest import.”

“Yes, yes. “  Dracula waved his long-nailed hand dismissively as he looked away.

Ruthven flipped the phone open.  “Speak.”

The voice on the other end declared proudly.”  Lord Ruthven.  This is Jackson.  We have the Vampire Slayer cornered.”

---

LONDON

In a dark alleyway in Soho, not far from Slow Boy’s, Blade and Whistler faced off against a row of vampires.  Blade’s sword was at the ready and Whistler had his shotgun cocked and loaded.  The vampire hunters were surprised that the vampires had not attacked yet and that the one in the rear was talking on his cell phone.

Jackson, dressed in a hooded jacket and ragged pants, had a face that was repugnant even for one of the undead.  It was he who stood behind his allies as he talked with his master.  “Yes, my Lord.  We do indeed have the Vampire Slayer cornered.  Do you want him alive or do you want his entrails?”  He paused to hear the answer and then signed off.  “Right, then.”

Flipping the phone closed, Jackson dropped it back in his jacket.  He pointed at Blade and Whistler.  “The Lord of Anglia sends his greetings and his condolences on your deaths.”  With that, the vampires converged upon them.

Blade made a quick sequence of strokes, to impress upon the vampires how deadly he was with the sword.  “Lord of Anglia?  What the bloody hell is that about?”

“Beats me, kid.  Whistler took aim with his shotgun and fired.  “Let’s find out from the survivors, assuming there are any.”  The silver buckshot tore through the midsection of the vampire closest to the aged hunter.  A second tried to close on Whistler, but he fired the second barrel quick enough.  That revenant was greeted with a spray of shot to the face.

Blade met his first opponent with an unexpected kick to the jaw.  The vampire was so intently watching the katana that he never saw the leather boot coming.  He did see the sword quickly following.  The next thing he saw before darkness overtook him was his headless body.

Another vampire leapt at Blade with outstretched claws.  Blade dropped to his knees and raised his left hand.  A teak dagger sprang from his wrist.  He plunged the dagger into the vampire as it went overhead.  The creature’s own momentum ripped a massive tear along its torso.  When it hit the ground behind Blade, it was writhing in pain.

Whistler was now back-to-back with Blade.  The scent of gunpowder from Whistler’s shotgun was a welcome alternative to the overpowering stench of the vampires to Blade’s nose.  They turned together as the vampires encircled them.

“Two all, old man.  Think this one’s gonna be a draw?” Blade muttered with a smile.

“We’ll see,” Whistler responded as a shot knocked back another vampire.  He had a few rounds left before he would have to reload.  After that, he knew Blade would have the advantage in this ‘friendly’ competition.

“Well,, come on, then.”  Bladed poked at the vampires with his katana.  “Who wants to be next?  I have the winnings from a wager to collect.”  He stepped towards a vampire knowing full well one from his left side would think there was an opportunity to flank him.  With one fluid motion, he pivoted and drove his sword through the vampire’s heart.  Whistler turned towards where Blade had feinted and blasted the vampire there.

“You know,” Blade said as he waded into the vampires again.  “for a bunch clever enough to track and corner us, they aren’t too smart.”

“What bloodsucker is?”  Whistler emptied the last of his shells.  Once again, a vampire went down with a gaping hole in his chest.

In a matter of a few seconds, Blade had dispatched the last of the vampires with clean, decapitating precision.  Jackson was the last to fall.  Blade used his katana to sweep away the various limbs strewn on the ground between him and Jackson’s corpse.  He bent down and looked through Jackson’s coat.

At the other end of the alley, a hand torch suddenly blazed to life. There was a silhouetted figure behind it.  “Hold it right there,” a shadowy female form called out.

Whistler wheeled about but his shotgun was empty and he had no time to reload.  Then it struck him – vampires don’t need flashlights.

Blade looked up with a wry smile.  “It’s not what it looks like, officer.”  The hand torch’s beam shone directly on his face.

“It looks like you’ve gone and killed a number of vampires, Blade,” the female stated.  She approached, her boot heels clicking along he ground.  When she got closer, her fetching but stern features and short blond hair could be seen.  “It certainly looks like that.”

“Fraser,” Blade muttered.  He had shared a couple of escapades with Inspector Kate Fraser of Scotland Yard’s Vampire Squad.  He certainly was indebted to her for her help against the Legion.  Their attempt to fool Blade into thinking he had killed an innocent girl was undone by Fraser’s assistance.

{Blade and Fraser fought the Legion in Vampire Tales#8-9 and Marvel Presents #3}

“I take it you two are acquainted.”  Whistler let the shotgun drop to his side.

“We are, though I’m unhappy to meet under these circumstance.  Killing these vampires has bollixed my investigation.”

Blade pulled the cell phone out of Jackson’s jacket and stood up.  “Investigation?  There’s no investigation needed with vampires.  You find ‘em and you kill ‘em.”

Fraser shook her head in disdain.  “There’s more to it than that, especially these days.  There’s a new redbloodpub that’s set up shop somewhere in Soho.  I want to bring it down.”

“Redbloodpub?”  Whistler asked.

“Think of it as an entertainment club, but for vampires, those who want to be vampires, and those who want to be with vampires,” Fraser explained.

“Sounds like a party for us to crash,” Blade said as he flipped open the cell phone.  “Now give me a minute.  I have to ring someone up.”  He pressed the redial button.  In Castle Dracula, Ruthven’s phone rang again.

“Good news, I would expect,” the Lord of Anglia noted to his host.

“Perhaps,” Dracula replied dryly.

“Is he dead?” Ruthven spoke into the phone.

“No, he is not dread,” Blade answered.  “He is most definitely alive.  And you must be the Lord of Anglia, whatever that is.  Don’t expect any further calls from you boys, because even if I sent the phone with them, I don’t think there’s any reception in the hell reserved for vampires.  And the name isn’t ‘he’.  It’s ‘Blade.’  B. L. A. D. E.”

Blade tossed the phone to Fraser.  “There you go.  Maybe your Scotland Yard techie blokes can get something out of the phone.  Now give Whistler and me a moment to clean up here and I’ll buy you a pint.  He sheathed his sword and flashed Fraser a smile.  Maybe you can tell me what you know about this Lord of Anglia.”

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UNDEAD LETTER OFFICE

Sorry for the delay on this issue.  I hope the extra length makes up for it.  A few notes on some of the characters mentioned here.  Like I did with my Marvel Dark Lore series, I’ll be using vampires from literature in the series, in addition to the ones from Marvel. 

 

A few letters:

I checked out issue zero of Shadow of Dracula a few weeks ago too.  Not too large a horror fan, myself, but I got the feeling this title takes a lot from the continuity of the Blade movies.  Are you influenced by those, or maybe the new Tomb of Dracula series at Marvel?   A few things I noticed that I really enjoyed:   -Blade taking out two vampires trying to have a peaceful dinner under the barrier.  One would think the barrier would have ushered in a new era of respect, perhaps even understanding for those poor vampires.  Nope. All vampires are evil douches!  Blade does what he does best and doesn't even blink.  And raw beef?  Classic visual, and I laughed even harder because, really, what else would they eat?   -Good introduction of Whistler, since we hadn't seen him in the Pendragons U.  Any other characters going to show up?  I know Blade's still got unfinished business with Kenneth Chrichton.   -And then there's Dracula, doing what he does best, as well, I suppose.  I noticed that you referred to 'Transylvania' in the prose, and of course that's where Dracula resides.  What intrigued me was that Transylvaniais in Romania, I believe, but if that's where Dracula is found, perhaps the region of Transylvania has declared independence from the rest of Romania, due to the large vampire populace?  Ah, well.  Thinking out loud there . Anyway, good stuff, Bob.  I looking forward to the next issue.   -ZACK!     Zack,   In terms of Blade, I draw my original inspiration from, and will try to stay true to, the original Tomb of Dracula series.  When Barry introduced Blade in Pendragons, he brought Whistler along for the ride, so I'll be keeping him in the series.  As much as I like the movie continuity and the new series, I won't be using it in the series.  It will be the Marvel Blade.  Though, now that I think of it, I might incorporate some ideas from the movies.   As for other characters, there will be a lot of creatures of the night appearing, as well as some minor characters from Blade's past.  Once I get things established, there will be a reckoning with Kenneth Crichton (if Barry lets me)   As for an independent Transylvania, the status quo of the vampire community will be touched in the next issue.  It's not so much independence as willful ignorance.   Thanks for reading and writing.     Hey, Bob! I'm not sure if you and I have ever spoken before -- if wehave, it must have been a long time ago, when both of us were stillwriting for MV1 -- but I wanted to drop you a line and let you know that I enjoyed your first issue of Shadow of Dracula at Av2k. I don't read a lot of fanfic anymore (there...um...seems to be a lot less of it since DM died again, for one thing), but as a fan of the '70s Marvel horror characters, I'm always curious to check out stuff written about them. I have fond (albeit at this point a bit vague) memories of the Vampire Tales work you did at MV1, too, so my interest was piqued. And it's early yet, but I have to say that this shows a lot of promise -- I really like your Blade and Whistler characterizations (more movie than comic book, methinks, but nothing wrong with that), and I appreciate that in a relatively short space you've already set up an interesting plotline with the last of the Westenras *and* brought in Dracula...and it doesn't seem rushed! I'm definitely interested to see where this all goes.   Mike,   I believe we had conversed, back when you were writing Ghost Rider ’57.  I remember enjoying those stories immensely.  I’ll be utilizing Whistler and some of the elements from the movies, but the history of Blade will be the one from the comics.  He won’t be a Daywalker.  He’s human, with a nose for the occult.  I’ll be incorporating Whistler into Blade’s backstory; there’s a lot we don’t know about the Vampire Hunter.  Thanks for reading and writing in.

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You can reach me at goosegansler@yahoo.com

Bob Gansler

01/06/04

 

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